


Scales

by FroldGapp



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Body Horror, Dragon AU, Dragons, Ensemble - Freeform, Fantasy, Gen, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Magic, Romance, SHEITH - Freeform, Transformation, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-04-15 23:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroldGapp/pseuds/FroldGapp
Summary: Disgraced knight, Shiro and his cursed squire, Keith, set out on a journey to find Allura, legendary queen and healer. The path is hard and Galra soldiers lurk in every corner of the kingdom. But the pair will do anything to get there; they owe it to each other, after all.Joined by Pidge, Lance and Hunk along the way, the group soon discovers it's a rare soul who lives without a curse in Altea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first proper multichap for Voltron. Here goes nothing...
> 
> Thanks so much to @blackcatbone for the cheerleading, and amazing kindly soul @radiofreekerberos for betaing!
> 
> British English so ' instead of ", etc. :)

‘Ah, crap,’ said Keith through a sigh. Beneath him, his booted feet _squelched._ He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep, calming breath. When he opened them again and looked down, he discovered that he had indeed stepped in another grot-pool; the scum of old magic that so polluted the forest behind Little Sincline. To humans, the stuff was largely harmless, but wildlife was known to choke on it, and fruit would not grow near it. Besides that, it stank. Keith scrunched his nose and stretched as far as he could, curling his fingers around a thin branch in an attempt to lever himself out. Bark flaked beneath his hands and after just a single tug, the branch snapped with a loud crack. He pivoted forward at the hips, almost landing face-first in the dark tar. He was caught at the last second by the collar of his shirt, but his hat was a lost cause.

‘You’d rather drown yourself than fetch a few squail eggs?’ With impressive ease, Shiro dragged Keith upright again. Standing on solid ground, the young knight was still pristine: unmarked and utterly sweatless. His black hair, long in the front, was swept back with light oil. The buzzed sides were neat, quite the contrast from Keith’s wilful mop.

‘You know I don’t like anything that comes out of anything else’s asshole. And besides,’ Keith glared at his newly knighted and very put-together friend, ‘I was fine.’

Shiro leaned forward and pawed thick, black tar from his squire-cum-best friend’s nose. ‘Is that why you’re wearing grot on your face like a drunk pooka?’

Dragging his incredulous eyes away from Shiro, Keith held his hand out for assistance. ‘Just get me out of here.’

‘You’re the boss,’ chuckled Shiro, and pulled Keith free with a single tug.

Squails, while largely docile, were impossibly difficult to find. Were it not for their magical properties, they’d probably be left well alone. Chameleon-like powers coupled with a preference for densely forested terrain meant that anyone hungry for their eggs were in for a long day’s hunting. And a long day it was: Keith was awoken that morning by a bucket of water to the face before the sun was even up, only to see Takashi Shirogane already dressed in his training armour, lit torch in hand. His broad sword, a gift from the late King Alfor, hung by his side; its scabbard glinting. Laughing, he’d poked and prodded Keith until he was somewhat more awake and dressed in his squire’s uniform bearing the Shirogane family crest. For his part, Keith had no crest. He barely had a name.

‘Why do we have to get these stupid eggs anyway?’ he’d asked, kneading sleep from his eyes at the humble servant’s table.

Shiro steepled his fingers dramatically beneath his chin, his face marred by shadows thrown by candlelight. ‘“The Paste of the Knighted,”’ he rumbled. His face split into a grin when Keith rolled his eyes. ‘Honerva’s orders: I have to bathe in it apparently. Good for protection.’

‘She’ll make an omelette out of them, and pass off some old cow dung as Knight Paste. You wouldn’t know any better. You have a horrible nose for magic.’

'You don't like her.'

Keith kicked at a pile of sawdust. 'I don't like her with  _you_. It's not far between a pat on the back and a kick up the ass, Shiro.'

‘Count yourself lucky she encouraged me to tag along for the squail eggs. Any other knight would send you off by yourself.’

‘You get one lousy knighthood and you think you can push me around,’ Keith grumbled, shovelling cold beans into his mouth.

‘Someone’s got to,’ Shiro smiled, leaning over to adjust Keith’s cap from where it had slipped over one eye. ‘This is too big.’

 

Since his accolade, Shiro wore his new knighthood with the kind of levity and patience everybody had grown to expect from him. His rose-gold armour fit him like he was born to it, and in the weeks that followed the event he grew taller, broader at the shoulder; a handsome sapling bathed in sunlight. The upper-crust of Little Sincline celebrated him with all manner of lavish feasts, while locals fawned at his feet. Keith, by contrast, told him his teeth were so shining-white a magpie was going to pluck them from his face, eat them, shit them out, eat them again, and feed them to its young.

Now, miles deep in the forests of Little Sincline, the pair walked in companionable silence: Shiro tall as an oak, and Keith slinking near every patch of brush and thicket they came across, hacking away with his short dagger to spy for squail nests. The sun hung low in the sky; a plump fruit, red as flesh.

Evening birdsong filled the damp woods surrounding them, punctuated only with the _whoosh!_ and _hack!_ of sword and dagger on thicket.

‘I wonder what Honerva would say if she knew you were using Alfor’s sword to chop weeds.’

Shiro made a face and sliced through a thick clump of brambles. ‘The less Honerva knows, the better.’ He brought the sword down again with a huff.

A lizard scampered free; turning back to consider knight and squire with beady, cautious eyes. A reedy tongue darted out from its bright yellow maw. Keith stuck his tongue out in turn, then casually flipped open his hip pouch and retrieved a handful of dried fruit. He tossed it at the lizard who scurried a few feet further away.

Shiro raised his eyebrows. ‘What a waste! Furred lizards don’t eat–’

The lizard hooted and pit-patted forward. It gobbled up the fruit and swallowed with noisy gulps. Taking a moment to sniff matters out with her tongue again, she shuffled towards Keith and danced upright on two legs.

‘She’s pregnant, and she’ll take whatever she can get,’ Keith said, casually throwing a few more morsels her way. She caught them and spun twice, tail whisking dried leaves from the forest floor.

Shiro’s mouth popped open, but really, he should have known better. ‘My squire: the lizard whisperer.’

Keith snorted and tossed a handful of fruit at Shiro, who yelped and stumbled back as the furred lizard darted for him and the fruit clinging to his front. He landed on his rump, but was up again in the same motion, grabbing a handful of leaves and tossing them at Keith who ended up with a mouthful. Sputtering, the squire kicked up a shower of muck and mulch.

Shiro roared, ducking away from Keith’s attack as dirt pelted his back and shoulder.

Breathless with laughter, the pair chased each other like a couple of young bucks over mossy logs and through sheafs of thick grass. Kit bags were flung to the ground, forgotten, and light armour unclipped in the frantic battle for advantage. They burst through the underbrush, startling a flock of crested flamingeckos into the sky; a shower of complaining coral.

Both boys paused as a squat, cantankerous squail poked its head out from a bush before darting away with a bothered squawk.

‘You’re frightening the squails!’ Shiro cried.

‘Good!’ Keith returned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

Shiro straightened and rested his fists on his hips. ‘You know,’ he said, eyes shining in the last of the evening sun. ‘You’re quite squail-like yourself: grumpy, hard to pin down, little–Argh!’

Keith launched a reckless, but utterly unsurprising manoeuvre, sprinting at Shiro before tumbling and vaulting into the air. Shiro feinted sideways. Easy: he knew better by now than to block Keith who at times looked as though he were made of liquid fire. He could read the lines of his body like a scroll.

‘Nice try!’ he crowed, and side-stepped another swipe. Something crunched and gave under his foot. Keith skidded to a stop. He gasped and threw a hand to his mouth.

‘What…?’ Looking down, Shiro saw his boot buried to the calf in greyish slime and the shards of a distinctive navy-blue eggshell.

The stench of sulphur filled the air and all the creatures of the wood seemed to hold their breath.

A screech shook the trees around them. The sun blinked green and slipped away like a frightened cur.

‘Shiro.’ Keith’s terrified face was pale as bone. His eyes were fixed on Shiro’s boot, and the crushed dragon egg beneath. A tail lay curled in the mess, black as liquorice.

Another howling screech rattled the woods and sent flocks of birds into the purple evening sky.

‘Shiro,’ Keith said, striding forwards and pulling his charge free of the soup of unhatched dragon. ‘We have to go.’

Shiro’s jaw shuddered. Little Sincline’s great knight: seventeen years old and paralysed with fear. ‘I... I didn’t see…’

Keith nudged him away from the egg. ‘I know. I know you didn’t.’ Picking up an armful of leaves and dumping them on the mess, Keith unfastened his belt with a few sharp tugs.

‘What are you doing?’ Shiro stuttered.

Steam rose as Keith emptied an evening’s worth of piss on the mound. ‘Confusing it.’ He shook himself dry and fastened his trousers again. ‘It’ll buy us a little time.’

‘My… my sword…’ Shiro said stupidly, turning one way then the other, struggling to see through terror and twilight.

Keith wrenched him away by the arm. ‘Leave the sword.’

‘I can’t… Honerva…’

The sawing sound of scales through air grew louder. A hulking black mass swept past one of Terra’s moons. Wind from the beast’s flight licked the canopy; it roiled like a dark ocean. Leaves fluttered on their branches; a chorus of fearful whispers.

‘Fuck!’ Keith hissed, and ducked into a low run, Shiro’s hand clutched tightly in his own.

Branches whipped against their shins and faces as they raced through the woods. They struck a patch of wet grot and both hit the slick mud hard. The stench of tar-old magic rushed into nostrils and mouths, but Keith had them up again, man-handling Shiro in front of him and over the crest of a small hill that led downwards to a stream. The black water reflected Terra’s two bright, cold moons: The Eyes of the World. They looked on, impassive.

The beast made its landing; a dull thud. They heard its messy snorts as it sought out the scent of its prey from the ruined shell. The ground shook as it pounded the Earth, furious, throwing the pair off their feet again. Both fought the urge to cry out as stones and thistles buried themselves in bare skin, but both failed to keep their tongues. The beast answered their cries with a thrilled screech. They could hear and _feel_ the pounding of the dragon’s feet on the soft, wet earth behind them. A jet of fire streamed into the sky.

Keith dragged Shiro to his feet and into the freezing water. They slipped and scrambled, stood and fell and stood again. Ahead of them was a narrow crevice in the bank. Digging his feet into the shingle, Keith pivoted with all his weight and slung Shiro into the gap. He only had a moment to fling himself back into a bush before the beast rushed over the hill behind them. It thundered down the hillside, throwing up pebbles and clumps of earth that tumbled into the water with a series of small splashes.

The dragon approached the water’s edge, a streak of black against a moon-bleached sky. Several carriages long and wingless, the beast’s ferocious yellow eyes searched the length and breadth of the stream, nostrils pulling on every scent; searching for the killer of its fledgling.

The boys locked eyes and breathed with burning lungs; shoulders heaving, bellies full of fear. Again and again, Shiro’s throat spasmed as he swallowed down his terror. Licking his lips, Keith held his eye and prayed to the moons, to the river–to any goddamn squail that was listening: _let him be safe_.

Then the beast spoke; a sound like the whisper of death. ‘Honerva’s paladin,’ it said, sibilant and slow. ‘You reek of her.’ It inched into the water, its flank graceful but its clawed feet scraping at rock.

From his place in the undergrowth, Keith eyed the dragon, then his friend.

Shiro swallowed hard, his chin puckered, and eyes damp. A single tear rolled free. The front of his trousers was dark with piss.

The beast’s huge maw split into a smile as its eyes narrowed at the slim hole in the bank. ‘I… see… you,’ it whispered, coiling its powerful tail.

‘No!’ Keith cried, bursting out of the brush. The dragon spun, throwing up a curtain of water that hung like crystals in the frigid air.

Cooing and kneading the riverbed, the dragon’s eyes flashed gleeful and victorious. ‘Better,’ it whispered, and struck. It’s thick tail cut an arc through the moons and brought the riverbed down on top of the cowering knight as his friend’s screams scorched the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @radiofreekerberos for the awesome beta work <3
> 
> Get at me at froldgapp.tumblr.com

The halls of The Wyvern’s Head were quiet save for the rumblings of the evening’s merriment below: some rowdy folk tune punctuated with abundant shouts of  _ Cheers!  _ Shiro padded along the wooden walkway back to his room, thick towel wrapped around his waist, and body steaming from the inn’s surprisingly lush salt spa. The lavish room and services were a gift from the innkeepers to the “most courageous and splendorous knight,” with a whispered, “and a great pity for your troubles,” as they’d stared, enchanted by his arm. The perks were a reward, they’d said, for saving their livestock from a small dragon that had been plaguing their farm in recent days. They did not know that the very same dragon now lounged in front of the room’s roaring fire, belly up and feet contentedly pawing at the air. Nor did they know that both Shiro and the dragon had dined on their chickens and a whole calf over mead siphoned from their barrels in the dead of night. It was a common ruse, simple and undetectable so long as the pair kept moving south faster than the petty complaints of innkeepers could. Needs must, Shiro reasoned. The inn had enough to spare, and well, when people hung dragon heads on their tavern walls, Shiro tended to forget a scruple or two.  
  
He pushed down the door handle – a carved dragon’s head – and ambled into the room, tugging his shirt from a chair by the door and towelling off his cropped hair roughly. That done, he tossed the shirt on the bed together with the towel. By the fire, the dragon’s eyes popped open. He launched himself at the wet fabric with a squawk, snatching both the towel and the shirt in his mouth, and eyeing Shiro unhappily. Shiro rolled his eyes, bending to pick up the large crumbled bed shirt the dragon had pilfered to sleep on. He pulled it on and chuckled as the dragon hopped down from the bed and trotted towards the fire, complaining in short, bothered grunts. The creature attempted to lay the wet clothes out to dry with questionable success. No thumbs and all that.  
  
‘Here,’ said Shiro, shaking out the towel, and pulling it up and over the grill. The creature snorted and fussed at it, small teeth nipping and long feathered whiskers wafting from the heat of the fire.  
  
‘I’m not going to die of a cold,’ said Shiro, stepping out of the way as the dragon shot past him and began tugging a blanket from the bed. It’s whip-thin tail – almost twice the length of its body – swung with the effort, curling and uncurling around Shiro’s bare legs. The knight huffed and saved the dragon the effort by retrieving the blanket and pulling it around himself. That done, the dragon measured him with slitted golden eyes, snorted its approval sharply, and started butting Shiro towards the fire. Its knobbled horns made dents in his thighs.   
  
‘Okay, okay,’ Shiro assured, and lay himself down in front of the fire. He yawned deeply, drawing his arms under his head. ‘You fuss too much.’   
  
The dragon answered with another disapproving grunt. It circled the floor, shaking out the delicate spines that halved its body from nape to tail. They glowed purple over blue over green over pink and sang like fine bells. The scent of ozone filled the room: magic. The lamps dimmed and went out, while the fire shrank to a comfortable glow.   
  
‘Thank you,’ said Shiro. ‘It wouldn’t do to save me from a cold just to let me die in an inferno.’   
  
The dragon blinked at him, utterly unimpressed.  
  
‘Sorry,’ Shiro muttered and turned over.

The dragon sighed – an all too human sound – and lay itself along the length of Shiro’s body. It made small adjustments to the blanket until the coarse threads sat beneath Shiro’s chin. Magic still thrummed over its warm scales and feathered fringing as it nuzzled its blunt, doggish muzzle against Shiro’s neck and ear. Shiro reached back and pet it gently, the smoky scent of  _ dark-doing _ clinging to his right arm.  
  
*  
  
‘You’ve already had enough this week.’ Shiro had no sooner heard Keith’s voice behind him than his tankard was plucked from his hand and replaced with a steaming cup of tea. He eyed it, mouth a sad crescent moon.

The squire slipped around the table gracefully and dropped himself into the chair opposite Shiro. His tunic was after the traditional Sincline style, black and wrapped high about the throat. The only hint of colour was a fine red thread that circled his collar and slipped beneath a lightly woven hood. His gloved hands rested on the edge of the table, fingers drumming. Agitated.

Shiro raised his witch-woven right arm and gestured at the broad scar across his nose. ‘We’re living through a war. Look at me: I’m hardly going to die from a drinking problem.’

‘Not funny,’ said Keith. ‘And you might. You have a tendency to fall over.' He gestured lazily at Shiro's bulk. 'Top heavy.’

‘Wasn’t meant to be funny, I won’t, I don’t, and no I’m not,’ returned Shiro. ‘Hey!’ With Shiro’s cup still in hand, Keith was inhaling the ale in throat-splitting gulps. His violet eyes were glued stubbornly to the wall behind Shiro’s head. When he finished, he slammed the tankard to the table and wiped the foam from his mouth with a gloved palm. The obstinate bun at the top of his head wobbled with the motion, a few strands of hair falling loose against his cheeks.

‘You’re a nuisance,’ grumbled Shiro.

Keith slipped his knife from its scabbard and picked at the edge of the table with it, but there was a smile somewhere between the elegant lines of his face. ‘My job is to bring you to Allura safely. You’re too cavalier. It frightens me.’

‘And my job is to get you back to normal.’ Keith opened his mouth to protest, but Shiro leaned closer and continued. ‘So, I don’t plan to die en route, but I do plan on drinking every free beer and eating every free dinner I can get along the way. I didn’t have a decent meal for almost three years, Keith. I need to live.’

Keith’s eyes flashed guiltily. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to deny you. I guess sometimes I forget. The little things… how important they are.’

A bell sounded at the bar and the other patrons groaned and shouted their displeasure. The pair turned to see what the ruckus was. The burly landlord was clambering onto a chair.

‘Quieten down! Quieten down!’ The crowd quietened down, barely. ‘As proud owner of–’

‘Co-owner!’ shouted the woman behind the bar. A grumpy server flinched at the volume between the two of them, shoving a finger into her ear and wiggling it around.

‘As proud _co-owner_ of The Wyvern’s Head, it is my esteemed pleasure and absolute joy to introduce one of the finest, most splendid personages in all of Arus, and all the worlds and moons and stars beyon–’

‘Get on with it, Terrance!’

‘Introducing, Morvok,’ blustered Terrance. ‘Galran general and grand administrator of the order of the slayers!’ The room exploded into excited shouts and a few Imperial Galran chants. Terrance continued, trying and failing to quiet the crowd again with bobbing palms. ‘And what an honour, too! For him to sit beneath our rafters, here this same night as the most famous son of Sincline, the Knight of the Breath of the World…’

‘Ah, fuck,’ muttered Keith.

‘I really could have done with that beer, Keith,’ said Shiro, reaching for his sword. Keith offered a baleful look of apology, following the red thread at his throat with his fingers until they caught upon an object within the folds of his hood. Just as Keith slipped away from the table, the barkeeper threw his hands in their direction. 

‘Takashi Shirogane, everyone! The Right Hand of the Great Witch Honerva!’

OoO

‘See, the thing about magic is, you never really know when the final card has been played.’

Lance, Bard of Bhalo, flicked a damning  _ kkeut _ card on the knobbly brown table and grinned when his opponent reared back with an offended squeal. The little white bird on the card winked up at him.

‘Aw, man! I was sure I had you that time.'

'Magic, Hunk,' said Lance, waving his long fingers in front of his friend's face.

'You cheated!’ protested Hunk, gathering up all his cards protectively. They glinted red, white and black from between his clutching fingers; each of them depicting birds and brambles and creatures of Arus. ‘You always cheat,’ he groaned.

Lance pawed the stack of coins towards himself, bobbing his head this way and that so his belled-cap jingled upon his fine brown hair. ‘It’s not cheating, Hunk,’ he explained as though he were speaking to someone much younger than himself. He swept the money into a small velvet pouch. ‘It’s playing the odds.’ He continued through a stage cough. ‘With a little magic.’

Hunk, known for his brains as well as his handiwork, didn’t seem convinced. ‘Well, maybe one day the odds will catch up with you.’

Lance guffawed. ‘Yeah, right.’ He slammed a few coins down at the edge of the table as a server passed. ‘Two more, beautiful!’ he said, winking. The server snatched the pair’s empty tankards up and fixed Lance with a tired glare. ‘My name is  _ Katie. Kay-tee.  _ You understand that, asshole?’ She plucked the coins from the table and slammed down two freshly frothing tankards.

Lance watched her departure through the bustling crowd of traders and soldiers, eyes wistful. Hunk studied him, one corner of his mouth pulled up in an incredulous smirk. ‘You really have a way with ladies, Lance.’

The bard leaned back, kicking his feet up on the free chair next to Hunk. His black shoes shone and his knee-length white socks were as clean and spotless as the day he bought them. He idly toyed with the tassels of his vibrant red belt that lay against satin trousers, blue as the ocean. ‘I’m choosing not to hear your sarcasm, Hunk, in favour of  _ cold, hard facts.  _ Those being:  _ ouch!’ _ Something cold and hard and very much unwelcome struck the back of Lance’s head. He spun in his seat, ducking at the last second to avoid another tankard. ‘Hey! Watch _ -oh  _ my God is that Takashi Shirogane?!’

Hunk didn’t have much time to answer, as said Takashi Shirogane was currently charging towards the exit, mowing down armed men in his path and – incidentally – en route to smash directly into their table.

‘Takashi! Takashi Shirogane! Knight of the Breath of the World! You’re my hero!’ Lance cried with eyes alight, even as Hunk tackled him to the floor. A moment later, the knight’s companion – a slight figure, all in black and face obscured by a scarlet mask – tossed the table aside with one gloved hand, allowing the knight to pass through. The stranger dipped into a spin until they were facing the oncoming soldiers. From behind their back, they drew two swords so fine, they sang. The assailants shrank back as the twin blades cut through the air, slicing troughs through cheeks, and snapping scabbards.

‘Holy shit!’ Hunk cried, nudging Lance farther towards the safety of the bar in a frantic crawl. ‘Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!’

Lance, for his part, was making vain attempts in the opposite direction in order to keep up with the action. ‘How d’you think you get a job like that? Chippity choppin’ people for the coolest knight ever, living or dead?’

Hunk grabbed Lance by the head and steered him back towards the bar. The soft red cap slipped over the smaller man’s eyes. ‘I’d like to keep _us_ living and not dead, thanks very much!’ yelled Hunk. A chair shot passed them, missing an oblivious Lance by a squail’s feather, as the chaos continued to unfold.

Crouched against the wet wooden panels, all reeking of piss, the pair turned back to the fight, Lance adjusting his cap with fussy hands. Takashi Shirogane stood surrounded, panting at the door. His thick fur cowl was spattered with blood and his breastplate bore the telling dents of more than a few strikes. Pulsing purple like a wound, his raised right arm held his attackers at bay. Just. His companion was nowhere to be seen.

‘Oh, well this is fucking great.’

Lance and Hunk jumped, clinging to each other at the sound of the new voice. It was the bar server. She’d since shucked off her dress and apron, and was crouched beside them in long shorts and tunic. Her sharp green eyes were levelled at the knight, her mouth a disapproving slope. She seemed mostly to be speaking to herself when she said, ‘I search for years for this bozo, and he ends up smashing up my bar right before my shift’s supposed to end. Just kill me.’

At that, the windows of the inn imploded. A great heat swept into the room, tongues of fire eating up the columns and beams, bubbling the varnish and smoking the wood into flaking crisps. Throughout the tavern, people screamed and threw themselves to the floor.

‘The devil’s in that arm!’ someone cried.

‘You’re telling me,’ mumbled the server, Katie, before cautiously climbing to her feet. She was much shorter than she first appeared, an illusion made of curled lips and unimpressed eyes. A round katar hung by her side, edges picked out in emerald green. 'Fuck!' she yelled. Amid the billowing smoke and licking flames, Takashi Shirogane had vanished. She pushed a table aside, and took one step into the disorder.  
  
‘What are you doing?!’ demanded Hunk, who was trying to make himself as small as possible. Hard to do when he was well past six foot and built like a garrison. Harder still when a bard dressed up like a tropical bird clung to his side.  
  
Katie smiled down at him, eyes all aflare with the pockets of flame. ‘Finding that knight.’  
  
Lance scrambled forward on hands and knees. ‘Wh-what?! Wait! We can come!’  
  
Hunk, horrified, threw his hands up in protest. ‘No, we can’t.’  
  
‘We can help!’  
  
‘ _No.’  
  
_ ‘We’re useful! Promise!’  
  
Already halfway out from the secluded spot, Katie turned back. ‘Useful how?’  
  
Lance inched forwards. ‘I’m a bard!’  
  
With an impressive eyeroll, Katie moved away. ‘Bye.’  
  
‘A-and I know magic! I’m a magician… sort of!’  
  
Interest piqued, Katie turned back. Lance threw his thumb at Hunk. ‘He can, like, fix anything. And build anything.’  
  
‘No, I can’t! I’m just an apprentice!’ argued Hunk, face that of a man who'd avoided one pile of dung just to step in another.  
  
‘To, like, __twelve masters,’ Lance explained. He turned back to Katie. ‘He’s like a master of all trades and jack of none! He’s really smart!’  
  
The server pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.  
  
‘And he can cook!’ Lance proclaimed.  
  
Katie smiled. ‘You have horses?’  
  
Lance nodded, while Hunk hung his head.  
  
‘Come with me.’ She saluted primly. 'Call me Pidge by the way.'  
  
The trio ducked past fallen mercenaries and upturned furniture, avoiding the hair-scorching heat of the flames. Once, Hunk’s jerkin caught fire. He put it out with dainty pats, throwing dark looks at a giggling Lance whose cap, belt, and feathered ears remained miraculously in tact. Exiting the building by the blown out door, Pidge skidded in a streak of blue-green slime.  
  
‘Ew,’ said Lance. ‘What is that?’  
  
He dogged the server as she marched her way around the back and towards the stables. She approached a small dappled horse, long in the leg and dancing with anticipation, and untacked her in a few sharp tugs. After mounting, she smirked down at her new companions.  
  
‘It’s our trail. That slime was ignition discharged. Takashi Shirogane escaped by no ordinary explosion. He’s in the company of a dragon, and Forest here has the best nose for all things draconic in the whole of Arus.’ She pulled Forest around until the animal found her scent, nostrils flaring and right hoof scraping the dry earth. Her whole flank shivered, itching for the hunt. Pidge pulled goggles from a satchel at her side and slipped them over her eyes. With the flick of a mechanism hidden on their frames, they came alive with the same emerald light that fringed her katar. ‘Saddle up, boys, we’re about to track a legend.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> British English so ' and not ", 'got' and not 'gotten', etc.

Fish exploded like confetti before the snapping mouth of the small dragon. It shot through the greenish lake water, twisting its long body, legs folded beneath it neatly and iridescent spines flying in its wake. Catching a lagging fish, the dragon wriggled towards the surface and flung itself onto the bank where it deposited the trout on a heap of catches piled in a linen sack. It nosed the top of the sack together, huffing as a fish flopped free and tumbled onto the grass. As carefully as it could, the dragon nipped a spiny fin between its razor teeth and dropped the fish back into the sack, singing a spell of enchantment to the creature with its glimmering spines. Like the gentle clinking of clay bells, the sound stilled the fish in seconds, and the dragon, contented, collected the well-worn handles of the sack and trotted away from the river and into the gloomy cool of the forest.

‘Busy day,’ Shiro observed, looking up from a struggling fire to greet the dragon who stood at the edge of the small clearing panting past the fat sack of fish clamped between its narrow jaws. A pair of horses, Black and Red, though more properly grey and dun, barely spared the dragon a glance. Red whuffed once at the beast and returned to chomping on a patch of daisies. The dragon hooted lightly in return. Setting his makeshift poker aside, Shiro held out his arm to accept the sack, but the dragon didn’t move. Instead, it stamped its forepaws and blew out twin jets of ashy mist, golden eyes narrowed and judging. ‘Ah, sorry, I’m sorry,’ Shiro stammered, lowering his witch-woven right arm and raising his left. Satisfied, the dragon trotted forward, head proud, and deposited the sack in Shiro’s outstretched hand. Or tried to, at least. Slippery with oil and watery blood, the sack slid free of Shiro’s grasp and landed with a wet thump. A single glassy-eyed fish tumbled free.

The dragon barked, affronted.

‘I know, I know. I’m a terrible travelling companion,’ Shiro groused, retrieving the fish and placing it on a thick waxy leaf by the edge of the fire. ‘It’s not like I made up camp while you were away.'

Behind the knight-turned-fugitive lay a modest camp. A large oilskin canopy had been erected beneath a clump of old acorn trees and clothes lay drying in the high afternoon sun. But the dragon was displeased, squawking and circling Shiro to stare incredulous at the washed shirts, the gathered kindling. Rolling his eyes, Shiro turned from the dragon and reached behind him for an arrow to spit the fish on.

‘I’m still your squire.’

‘Hair of Haggar!’ Shiro screamed, spinning back to the spot where the dragon had been. There stood Keith, hands on hips, lips drawn in a sullen pout. Utterly naked. He tutted, pointing at the camp. ‘How am I supposed to be your squire when you keep doing the menial tasks yourself?’

‘A squire might think to put some clothes on,’ said Shiro, recovering himself with a hand to his chest. ‘And at least attempt not to give his knight a heart attack.’ He thrust the spit through the fish and balanced it across the fire. ‘Besides, I’m not a knight anymore.’

‘Yes, you are.’ Keith made a sound like a sneeze and a pair of trousers shimmered about his legs, red belted and loose. His fine clay mask, scarlet, carved like the terrible face of a lion, hung about his neck. Still lying amongst the other laundry drying on the forest clearing were his black shirt and hooded cloak. Heedless, he tottered through the dewy grass and dropped down next to Shiro, shivering slightly and raising his hands to the fledgling fire.

Shiro laughed. ‘You’ll catch a cold.’

‘Catching fish wasn’t enough?’

Spit in hand, Shiro rifled through the sack for another fish. ‘You couldn’t have caught bigger ones? These are all bones and no meat.’ He grinned. ‘Just like you.’

Keith huffed and plucked up another fish, running his thumb across the soft scales before deftly skewering it and placing it next to Shiro’s over the fire. He nodded towards a large, flat rock. ‘I figured we could salt the others and dry them tomorrow. Bring them with us.’ He crept over to his pack, returning with a cloth bag of coarse salt.

Shiro threw out his arms in a _ta-da!_ gesture. ‘See!’ he cried. ‘What a good squire!’

Snickering, Keith thrust another fish at Shiro. ‘Come on, Knight of the Breath of the World. You skewer, I’ll salt.’  
  
OoO

They ate until their bellies were bloated with sweet, oily fish and grain seasoned with salt and pickled herbs. Red had made her usual circumspect attempts to eat from Keith’s lap, the squire all too willing to indulge her, but Shiro intervened always at the last minute with a gruff, ‘Fish aren’t for horses!’

Black had been content to watch from the edge of the clearing, absently chewing on tufts of wildflowers and pawing at earth damp with dew under the westering sun. The remaining fish, properly salted and stored in the bloody bag they’d come from, hung from a tree high above the camp, ready to be laid out to dry in the morning. Here, in this little clearing miles from the nearest farm or village, they would rest. And recover.

Encountering Morvok at The Wyvern’s Head was unexpected, proof – as if they needed more – that the Galran jurisdiction was spreading, the iron-gated stations and dark presence growing and deepening further and further into Arus. What had been ceremonial outposts were becoming more commonly fortified stations, official, and well-staffed with increasingly elite and brutal Galran soldiers. Keith and Shiro had got away, but not without a hard and fast ride lasting the night and half a day, and not without a shallow wound or two.

‘How is it?’ asked Keith, dropping down to sit cross-legged next to Shiro. Bandages unwinding around Shiro’s witch-woven arm, a brown stain became visible on the binding just below his ear, growing in size with each turn until the last of the linen came away with a pull of skin.

‘Fine. Stiff. Scabbed over. Hand me that, will you?’

Keith lifted the linen binding and bit off a section, laying it in Shiro’s lap. ‘It’s getting worse: Generals this deep in Arus. If Morvok is here, who else? We still have to cross the Galra heartland.’

‘Maybe nobody’ll be there when we reach the border.’

Full of moonlight, Keith's eyes danced with upset. ‘It’s not funny.’

Shiro bit his lip, pulling at the linen between his hands: one soft and human, the other black as iron, thrumming with Honerva’s violet magic. ‘No,’ he said, and began winding a fresh bandage around the wound. ‘You’re right.’

 

The clearing was still all around them, bathed in milky golden light from  Óir, the first Eye of the World to rise. Airgead still slumbered beneath the horizon, casting silver light on other lands; the heart of the Galra empire amongst them. Keith had seen to the fire, coaxing it to a gentle glow with another dainty sneeze, while Shiro filled their canteens with water from the lake. Fed and watered, the horses stood dozing next to one another; Red half hidden by Black’s bulk. Despite Keith’s protests, Shiro was on first watch, having won a bet on who could be quiet for longest. Keith lost on account of having trodden on a particularly spiky chestnut.

‘If anything glows or whooshes or moans or floats, wake me,’ ordered Keith, covered up to the eyes with a woollen blanket.

Shiro, sat against a broad tree and snacking on peeled chestnuts, flicked one against Keith’s head. ‘I’m hex-dumb, not an idiot. Besides, it’s more likely to be you than anything else within a twenty mile radius doing any of the above.’

‘Any creature that isn’t me or the horses, no matter how cute, lonesome, forlorn or harmless, is not to be trusted. Again: wake me.’

‘Even fire-frogs?’

Keith’s eyes narrowed. ‘Especially fire-frogs.’

‘You’re no fun.’

Keith rolled over. ‘Good night, Shiro.’

Another nut, directly to the back of the head. ‘Good night, Keith.’

 

OoO

‘So we’re going to catch up with them and then… call the Imperial guards, right?’ Hunk asked, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face by a branch. Ahead of him, Pidge paid no heed to the twigs snapping back in her wake.

‘Nope,’ she said.

Hunk drew his reins closer to his chest. ‘We’ll… take note of their location from a distance and report it to the guards?’ he asked hopefully.

A snort from Pidge and another curt, ‘Nope.’

Behind him, Lance yawned and drifted into the conversation after a few dry smacks of his lips. ‘So what are we going to do? Just walk right up to them and– Wait, what  _ is  _ the plan?’

The trio drew to a halt as Pidge brought her horse up abruptly, spinning to face the others. The luminescent green of her goggles cast an eerie pall across the reaching brambles and branches. ‘My brother, Matt Holt, was captured and imprisoned together with hundreds of Arusians after the Galra expansion. Some were sent to work the quintessence mines, others were slaughtered as examples or because they couldn’t work anymore. Others…’ She gathered herself with a steadying breath. Forest whinnied and nibbled at her hand. ‘Arusian nobles were held for theatre only. You know how the blue bloods are, no matter the nation; half of them are related anyway. Most of them lived quite comfortably, retained power even, especially those who made deals with the Galra.'

‘Honerva,’ said Lance.

Pidge nodded and continued. ‘Lesser nobles were married into “freedom” and some, the military class, bought their freedom in the arena. Bought it with the lives of others.’

Hunk swallowed. ‘You mean…’

‘The  _ plan _ is to confront Takashi Shirogane, Knight of the Breath of the World and former servant of the traitor Honerva, with the disappearance of my brother.’

‘Yikes,’ Lance mouthed, pulling on a feathered earring.

‘B-but Takashi Shirogane is a fugitive; one of the most dangerous people on Earth. He isn’t even a knight anymore. Not since –’

‘Takashi Shirogane is a murderer. A monster.’ From her jacket, Pidge drew a small silver whistle, also bossed with shining green. ‘A hailing flute. The villages either side of this forest are swarming with Imperial soldiers,’ she said, goggles leaving emerald streaks in the dark as she looked from North to South. ‘Either Takashi Shirogane gives me answers or I bring the Imperial army down on his head.’

Lance walked his horse, a leggy roan, alongside Hunk’s broad draught. ‘And what about that  _ thing _ that was with him? With the –’ Lance swept his hand back and forth over his face, ‘Creepy mask do-da.’

Forest snickered and whipped back to the path ahead of them. Ignoring the question, Pidge kicked her booted feet lightly against Forest’s flank, which shivered with excitement as she broke into a brisk walk. ‘We’re close.’

Hunk cast uncertain eyes to Lance. ‘I have a bad feeling in my stomach about this.’

Smile rueful, Lance reached out and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Enjoy it while it lasts?’ With a click of his teeth, Lance hurried after Pidge, careful to keep Beryl at a trot lest they give themselves away to their quarry.

‘That’s… not funny,’ Hunk complained to his horse. With a solid pat to the beast’s neck, he walked him forward. ‘Come on, Rubble. Victory or death or whatever.’

OoO

_ Keith dreamed of fish. Hundreds and hundreds of fish – thousands – darting in front of him in great shimmering sheets of silver. He felt the water split in front of him, cool and tasting of earth and mineral. His strong body propelled him forward, supple muscle coiling and stretching with keen energy. He laughed. Fat bubbles exploded from his mouth and drifted up to the surface where an orange globe hung in the sky. The sun? No. _

_ He choked. _

_ Not the sun. But an eye. _

_ And it was looking at him. _

_ The water shook as a voice boomed, ‘I know what you are.’ _

‘I  _ know _ what you are!’

Keith was rolling to his feet, blades in hand, before the dream had even vanished. ‘Shiro?’ he panted, eyes darting to where he’d left Shiro before drifting off.

Entwined in a shining blue rope, Shiro stood tall and unafraid, eyes not leaving the small figure who pressed a katar to his throat. To either side stood two men: one slender, the other broad. Their terrified eyes shone wet from beneath their caps as they eyed Keith, who raised a single blade in their direction.

‘Get away from him,’ he said.

‘Don’t you want to put on your stupid mask, there, buddy?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘So we can’t describe you to the guards…?’ the tall man said, voice trembling. ‘Because you’ll let us live?’

Keith stepped forward, shoulders dropping like a leopard before the pounce. ‘You’ll let him go.’

‘No we won’t,’ said the figure with the katar, her back still to Keith.

‘Shiro, the rope’s an illusion,’ said Keith. ‘Know it for what it is and it can’t bind you.’

Shiro scrunched his eyes shut like a child, eyebrows creasing with concentration, but the rope remained.

The slim man turned to his companion, mouth agape. ‘Holy shit! Is Takashi Shirogane hex-du-argh!’

The bag of salted fish dropped and burst on top of his head, promptly shutting him up. Keith’s curved blade rang where it had lodged itself in the tree, rope pinned beneath it. He rushed at them, other blade flying and swept the larger man’s feet from under him, while his right foot hooked the katar wielder’s knees and drew her back and down. She thumped against the ground, goggles slipping from her face. Keith was on her, hilt bearing down on her desperate, devastated face as she mouthed,  _ ‘No, no, no!’ _

‘Keith, wait!’ Shiro cried, ropes dissipating in the night air.

Growling, Keith snatched her katar away and drove it into the soft earth beside her head. ‘Why?’ he bit, glare not leaving the face beneath him. Long fingers tugged the buttons free on her jacket and panic seized the girl until Keith’s hand came away with a fine silver whistle. He snapped it between the fingers of one hand. Hazel eyes, terrified only moments before, now sparked with defiance. She spat at him. He didn’t care; let it run off his cheek and back onto her own.

‘Because I know her,’ said Shiro, tripping forward and standing above the pair. The other two assailants collected themselves from the ground and stood panting. Shiro placed his human hand against Keith’s neck, felt the racing pulse there, and sighed. Nursing a thick curl of hair between his thumb and finger, he coaxed his squire backwards and off the girl. Keith complied, but his blade remained unsheathed. His shoulder was rock hard with tension when Shiro laid his hand there. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Shiro wiped the spit from Keith’s cheek. The squire did not respond; just continued to stare, nostrils flaring.

‘This is Katie Holt,’ Shiro said, guiding Keith by the chin until their eyes met. Keith pulled his head free and scrubbed at his cheek, cold stare returning to their small attacker. Shiro continued, but his hand never left Keith’s shoulder. ‘Matt Holt’s sister.’

The girl’s chin puckered with upset. ‘Monster,’ she whispered.

Shiro closed his eyes, his broad shoulders dropping with resignation. ‘I know why she’s here.’

**Author's Note:**

> Get at me: https://froldgapp.tumblr.com


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